


Put On the Red Light

by miss_begonia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Prostitution, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_begonia/pseuds/miss_begonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had happened awfully fast, but hey, Dean just thought she was easy. Dean’s cool with easy. He’s kind of easy himself. He knows how he looks – got Mom’s eyes, Dad’s chin. Girls like it. Dean likes girls.</p>
<p>But. Bills on the dresser.</p>
<p>Clearly there’d been a miscommunication of some kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put On the Red Light

_These  
quiet nights,   
no forms,  
just darkness,   
smooth skin  
and heat—_  
  
~*~  
  
Sam never does figure it out. Dean’s oddly proud of that.  
  
~*~  
  
He’s sixteen when it happens for the first time. He doesn’t even  _mean_  for it to happen. It just does. Dad’s ditched them in Crossville, Tennessee, population:  _too damn small to have any fun._ Dean’s bored. He’s sixteen and the man of the house and bored. He does what’s natural.  
  
He picks up chicks.  
  
Well – one chick, at first. She’s older – twenty-two, she says – and has a drawl he could drown in and eyes so blue they make Dean want to become a fish just so he can dive into ‘em. Tiny little waist, small hands. She cups his chin and kisses him until he can’t breathe, shoves him down on the double bed and straddles him, rips open his shirt. Dean’s pissed. He doesn’t  _have_  that many shirts. True, this one’s getting tight in the shoulders, frayed at the hem, but Sam could wear it, maybe. For a few months at least.   
  
Dean needs to learn how to sew on buttons.  
  
Caroline – her name is Caroline – scratches her short nails down over his chest, tickling his nipples. When he lifts his hips she giggles, pushes down on his stomach and leaves her hand there. He’s sweating under her hand, salty drops collecting in his belly button. He wants her to lick it off. He wants to lick her. He flips her, presses her body into the bed, tongues down over the smooth curve of her neck, clasps her waist with both hands. She’s not giggling anymore. She makes a sweet, gasping whimper of a noise in the back of her throat. Dean’s harder than nails.   
  
“Make that sound again,” he whispers. She does.  
  
Again. And again.  
  
He wakes up to find her gone, sheets still wrinkled and tepid warm from where they fucked. He sits up, scratching at the back of his neck. He feels good. Yeah. He pads across the dirty carpet, barefoot in his boxers, needing to check on Sammy.   
  
Then he sees it.  
  
Bills. Crumpled on the dresser. Bills that were not there before, he’s sure of it, because Dean Winchester always knows how much money he’s got, where it came from, where it’s going. Especially when Dad’s gone. They got robbed once in Tuscaloosa; it wasn’t pretty. Things were said. Dean doesn’t want that to happen again.  
  
But this is the opposite of robbed. Money has appeared, as if harvested from the mythical money tree. It’s…unexpected. And creepy. Winchesters don’t know how to deal with good luck. They’ve never had much of it to go around.  
  
Then it clicks.  _Caroline._  Caroline left the money. Why would Caroline…  
  
Dean’s mind flashes to the night before, the bar, Caroline making eyes at him across the smoky dirty beer-soaked room. He’d sidled over, hands in his pockets, and looked up at her from under his lashes.  _Light my cigarette?_  she’d murmured. Dean always has a lighter handy. Never knows when he might need to smoke a demon bitch out. He’d leaned in, rolled the tiny silver wheel, watched as the flame licked the end of stick until the paper caught, burning with a soft hiss.  
  
She looked sexy when she sucked in her cheeks like that. Dean’s sixteen. He doesn’t really do nuance. He wanted her to suck on something else.  
  
It had happened awfully fast, but hey, Dean just thought she was easy. Dean’s cool with easy. He’s kind of easy himself. He knows how he looks – got Mom’s eyes, Dad’s chin. Girls like it. Dean likes girls.  
  
But. Bills on the dresser.  
  
Clearly there’d been a miscommunication of some kind.   
  
Dean picks up the wrinkled money; it feels greasy in his hand. He counts it. Fifty bucks. Huh. Not bad. Not bad at all.  
  
He cocks his head to one side. He can see Sam’s sock-clad foot dangling off the couch, toes poking through holes where the fabric’s worn through. Still asleep. Good. He needs a few minutes to think, to process.  
  
Caroline had looked pretty with her mouth open, laid flat out on the bed as he fucked into her. She was tight all around him, real tight, slippery too.  
  
He turns over a twenty in his hand. Andy Jackson looks like he’s  _smirking_.  
  
Sammy really needs new socks.  
  
Dean needs a new shirt.  
  
He doesn’t know when Dad’s coming back.  
  
Dean blinks.  
  
 _Okay. I can work with this._  
  
~*~  
  
Mrs. Kathy Sampson likes being tied up. Dean doesn’t mind. He’s got a lot of rope.  
  
“You’ve only got rope?” she asks, deep brown eyes wide. She’s sweating, moisture pooling in the valley between her breasts. Dean licks his lips. “No…neckties or anything?”  
  
“I don’t really wear ties,” Dean says. “But I can untie you anytime you want, you know.”  
  
“Just…just do it, I don’t care.” She bites her lip, shifting on the bed. “Dean. Please.”  
  
 _This is fucked up_ , Dean thinks. But he likes it. Sure beats homework. He twists the rope around her wrist, ties it tight enough so she’ll know he’s not kidding, loose enough so she can still move. He’s working on the other wrist when she leans in and licks at his neck, inhaling deeply. She lets her finger dance over his cheekbone, lingering.  
  
“You’re really beautiful, Dean,” she says. “You know that?”   
  
~*~  
  
Teresa shows up because Kathy referred her. She tells him this when he swings open the door at seven p.m. on a Wednesday night, shotgun clutched in one hand.   
  
Dean relaxes some, grins.  
  
She’s got long, silky brown hair and a perfect ass. He fucks her against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, his pants around his ankles. He’s never done it that way before, but he’d gladly try it again. Makes his legs ache like a motherfucker, but  _damn_ , the angle is good.  
  
“Come back any time,” he tells her, after. She’s flushed, smiling, as she tries to smooth out her tangled hair.   
  
“Maybe I will,” she says.  
  
She slips him a hundred.   
  
Dean’s smile widens.  
  
~*~  
  
Brenda thinks Sam is adorable. Sam just smiles politely, nods and calls her ma’am. He’s got homework, and Dean’s got business to take care of. He pushes Brenda into the bedroom and locks the door.  
  
“Don’t talk to my brother,” Dean says. “That’s rule number one.”  
  
“You got a lot of rules, Dean?” Brenda’s got talons for nails, bright pink with rhinestones. Classy. Kinda hot, too. He shakes his head  _no_. “Good.”  
  
Brenda’s got a hell of a mouth and she knows how to use it. Dean has to bite down on the pillow to keep from groaning too loud.  _Damn._  He curls his tongue ‘round hers when they kiss, tasting himself on her lips. That should be weirder than it is, but then again, Dean’s a Winchester. Weird is his normal.  
  
“What kind of cookies does Sam like?” Brenda asks when they’re laying side by side, sex funky and fucked out.   
  
Dean cocks an eyebrow.   
  
“Are you serious?”  
  
“‘Course I’m serious, baby,” she says, pinching his cheek. “I won’t talk to him, all right? But next time I come, I want to bring somethin’ for you boys. What’s his favorite? I can make damn near anything.”  
  
“I bet you can,” Dean smirks.  
  
~*~  
  
“Dean,” Sam says one day over breakfast, “are you, like, organizing something? For school?”  
  
“Hmm?” Dean’s really enjoying his Lucky Charms. He can buy the expensive cereal now. It’s a perk.  
  
“I mean, there’s been a lot of moms over lately.” Sam tilts his head to one side, assessing him with wide green-grey eyes. Dean fights off the blush. “Are you working with the PTA? Because Mrs. Taylor, I know she’s on it, and I think Mrs. Franklin is too…”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, it’s a PTA thing, Sammy.”   
  
Dean loves his little brother. He really does. Especially right now.   
  
He clears his throat. “We’re…organizing a bake sale.”  
  
“ _That’s_  why there’s always cookies!” Sam says. His face falls. “But…is it okay that I’ve been eating them? I didn’t know…”  
  
“No, it’s totally cool, dude. They’ve been…testing out recipes. They’ll make more for the bake sale when it actually happens.”  
  
“This is going to be an awesome bake sale.” Sam shakes his head, impressed. “I mean, really, Dean. That’s a lot of cookies.”  
  
Dean pretends to be absorbed in the obituaries.  
  
~*~  
  
“Dean,” John’s voice crackles over the line, “you taking care of everything?”   
  
“Sure.” Dean thumbs through the stack of crisp bills on his dresser, shifting the phone from one shoulder to the other. “Everything’s fine.”  
  
“I’ll be home soon, I promise, son,” John murmurs. “Got this bastard right in my sights, I swear.”  
  
“Take your time,” Dean says.   
  
The doorbell rings.   
  
“Gotta go, Dad,” Dean mumbles. “Homework.”  
  
~*~  
  
Dean’s going to be seventeen tomorrow. Dad’s been gone for three months.   
  
He’s cooking macaroni and cheese – with the good cheddar, too. He let Sam pick it out at the store. No more of that Kraft shit. It’s imported from somewhere. Wisconsin, maybe? It’s Sam’s favorite. If Sam’s noticed the upgrade in the level of their cuisine over the last few months, he hasn’t said anything. Mostly he’s just happy about the steady flow of baked goods.  _Southern women,_  Dean thinks.  _All about the hospitality._  
  
Dean’s pretty sure everyone around town knows. The other day he got called into the guidance counselor’s office. Ms. Graham had glared at him over her square bifocals. “Dean, is everything all right at home?”  
  
“Everything’s fine at home,” Dean had said.   
  
“I’ve been lead to believe that you have no regular parental supervision.”  
  
Dean had crossed his arms and lifted his chin, staring her straight in the eye. “My dad’s out of town on business a lot. It’s fine. He checks up on us all the time.”  
  
“Really?” She’d looked skeptical. “I’m worried about you. That’s a lot of responsibility for a sixteen year old to take on, running a household.”  
  
“It’s just me and Sammy,” Dean had pointed out, “and he’s doing fine, right?” Dean had arched an eyebrow. “He’s getting straight As, last time I checked.”  
  
Ms. Graham had shuffled some papers on her desk. “Yes. But your grades could use some improvement, Dean.”  
  
Dean had rolled his shoulders, blinked sleep out of his eyes.   
  
“I’ll do better, I promise.”  
  
“Let me know if I can do anything to help,” she said.  
  
 _I can help you, lady, oh yes,_  Dean’d thought. He’d tilted his head slightly and grinned, all dimples and sweetness and sincerity.   
  
She smiled back.  
  
~*~  
  
 _With you, I become  
a pretty picture,   
the outline of my body  
matching the curves  
of your palms._  
  
~*~  
  
Librarians, man. Are  _filthy._  
  
Dean should be in fifth period Pre-Calc right now, but Ms. Green had made a very convincing offer the last time he’d brought Sam to the library to do research for his science fair project. It’d involved the words  _suck_  and  _in the stacks_  combined with $120 in small bills. Dean hadn’t thought librarians got paid all that much, but hey, Lilah’s got a good head on her shoulders. She can prioritize, and who is he to judge?  
  
Especially right now, pressed up against a bookshelf with his Levis shoved down over his hips, hands threaded through her curly auburn hair as she swallows down his cock.  
  
“Mmmrphf,” Dean bites down on his own hand to muffle a moan as she licks a wet stripe up the underside of his dick before sucking the head between her lips.   
  
She pulls off long enough to say, “Next time you fuck me in the copy room, okay, Winchester?”  
  
Dean nods, curling his hands into fists. He bites his lip as she wraps her mouth around him, feeling his fingernails dig into his palms.  
  
 _Fuck guidance counseling,_  he thinks.   
  
He’s already got a career. He’s going places.  _Goddamn._  
  
~*~  
  
“Jesus  _Christ_ , Dean. You what?”  
  
The conversation with Dad doesn’t exactly go…well.  
  
Dean should’ve anticipated it, but really, he’s never been a terribly good liar, and Sammy –  _Sammy_ , fucking naïve _idiotic_  Sammy – was the one who let the cat out of the bag. Even if Sam didn’t know what the cat looked like, or how furry it was, or even whether it was a boy or a girl. Because Sam Winchester is a smart kid, all right, but he’s also twelve, and what Dean’s been up to lately has  _definitely_  been rated generously over a PG-13.  
  
Perhaps Dean should start from the beginning.  
  
John comes home on a Tuesday, which happens to be so soon after the weekend (Dean’s “high volume period,” as he likes to call it) that Sam hasn’t had a chance to devour all the cookies and cakes that are spread out over the kitchen counters.   
  
“What the hell have you been feeding him, Dean?” John asks. “It’s not right to give him that much sugar. And what the—is that  _brie_?”  
  
Okay, so maybe Dean had gone a little nuts in the gourmet aisle at the supermarket, but he’d never  _had_  French cheese, and Sam – Sam’s taking French this year and so Dean’d thought it would be educational.   
  
This had been a hell of a week, business-wise. Apparently all the men skip town at the same time each year to go on some huge-ass collective fishing trip, and Dean’s calendar had been booked solid. So he had cash on hand, and Sam had wanted fancy cheese, or maybe Dean had suggested it, he can’t remember now, but god _dammit_ , they had the money and…  
  
Dean realizes with a start that his father is staring around the kitchen at the new stainless steel pots Dean had invested in a week back – the good shit, the woman at the kitchen store had assured him – and the George Foreman grill, and Sam’s gleaming new white Nikes, and Dean’s fresh white collared shirt, and the comic books spread out across the kitchen table and –  _shit_  – at the smooth brown leather jacket hanging off the back of one of the kithcen chairs. That jacket was just so  _beautiful_ , man, and leather lasts forever – so it was an investment, right?  
  
John drags his eyes up to meet Dean’s.   
  
“Did you get a job?” he asks, tone carefully neutral.  
  
“Dean’s working with the PTA!” Sam says, smiling wide. “That’s why there’s cookies here all the time, Dad! It’s sweet!”  
  
John narrows his eyes at Dean. Dean twitches.  
  
“Sammy, go watch TV,” John says slowly, eyes not leaving Dean’s.  
  
“But I have homework—“  
  
“Go into the living room, son,” John says. Sam looks confused, but does what he’s told, padding into the living room, flopping down on the couch and flicking on the TV.  
  
John just stares at Dean.  
  
“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I got a job,” Dean mutters.   
  
 _Fuck. Where do I work? Where do you work, Dean?_  
  
“Where?” John picks up one of the pans, turning it over, examining the gleaming metal.  
  
“Um. The hardware store.”  
  
“Really.” John raises an eyebrow. “What do you know about hardware?”  
  
 _Why didn’t I say the auto body shop?_  Dean thinks.  _Why?_  
  
“Uh…well, they’re training me, and…”  
  
“Dean.” John’s got his  _You better not_  face on and he’s clenching his hands so tight around the handle of the pan his knuckles are turning white.   
  
“It’s a good job, Dad!” Dean tries a different tack. He digs into his pocket, pulling out a wad of bills. “Look! I made enough to maybe buy some new hunting gear…I was just waiting for you to come home to pick it out—“  
  
“ _Dean._ ” John’s voice is so sharp it could cut glass. He pushes the kitchen door closed, lowering his voice. “What the hell is going on?”  
  
“Okay, so I don’t work at the hardware store,” Dean babbles. “Maybe I let a few women pay me for sex. It’s cool, all right? I mean, they liked it. Or they said they did, and  _I_  liked it, so…it’s a victimless crime, right? I mean, it’s not like anybody got hurt or—”  
  
“Jesus  _Christ_ , Dean. You  _what_?”   
  
That’s not admiration in Dad’s voice. Dean can tell. More like pure, unadulterated shock.  
  
 _Whoops._  
  
Dean slumps down in a chair at the kitchen table, burying his head in his hands.  
  
“God…Dean, I thought you were…selling  _drugs_  or something, which would be bad enough, but…you’re  _hooking for cash_?” John’s hand comes down on Dean’s shoulder, shaking him.   
  
“I prefer  _erotic management consultant,_ ” Dean mumbles.  
  
“Oh, so now you’re a smartass, huh? That seem like a good idea right now?” John’s raising his voice again, and Dean makes the mistake of meeting his father’s gaze; John’s eyes are a fiery hazel, and he’s one hundred percent straight up  _pissed_.  
  
“I don’t know…it just. I know it sounds weak, Dad, but really, it just…sort of happened. By accident. It…I…” Dean trails off, sighing. “I’m sorry, okay? But I…these women, they like me, and they pay me money and we…we needed money, you know we did, we always do, and…”  
  
“Holy…for the love of god, Dean, you don’t have to  _prostitute_  yourself. There’s better ways—“  
  
Dean glances up, green eyes wide, light brown hair falling over his forehead.   
  
Women are paying him to have sex. Better ways? Was his father never seventeen?   
  
“There  _are_  better ways, son,” John says, tone flat. “You’re seventeen years old, for Christ sakes. It’s illegal and it’s _wrong._ ”  
  
“But a lot of things we do—“  
  
John cuts him off.  
  
“Don’t you dare say it. This is not the same as hustling a game of pool every now and again and making a few fake IDs, boy. That is your  _body_  you’re selling—“ John slams his hand down on the table, making Dean jump, and stops, breathing with difficulty. He pauses, shoulders tensing so tightly Dean can see the muscles shift under his shirt.   
  
After a moment he continues, voice softer, almost defeated.  
  
“I’m never going to be able to leave you boys alone again, am I? God _dammit_ , Dean…”  
  
Dean hangs his head.   
  
“Sammy doesn’t know, does he?” John presses two fingers to his temples, taking in a deep breath.  
  
“No, sir,” Dean whispers.  
  
“You know, if…” John stops, but Dean hears it anyway, knows what he was going to say because he always does.  
  
 _If your mother was here, young man, the **things**  she would have to say to you…_  
  
And all of a sudden Dean doesn’t just feel stupid for getting caught in a lie.  
  
He feels ashamed.  
  
~*~  
  
Four days. That’s how long John sticks around after their confrontation before he catches a whiff of something otherworldly and packs up his gear into the Impala again.   
  
He gives Dean four hundred dollars and strict instructions not to do  _what he’s been doing_  under any circumstances. “I am  _trusting_  you on this, Dean Winchester,” John says. “If you lie to me I will know, so don’t be stupid.”  
  
Dean traces a circle in the dust with one dirty boot, but says nothing.  
  
“I don’t want it to be like this,” John whispers. “Be a man, son. Be vigilant and protect your brother. Can you do that for me?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Dean murmurs.   
  
John pats him on the back, gracing him with a tired half-smile. He hugs Sam, shoves a shotgun into the trunk and peels out of the parking lot without another word.  
  
“Dean, why’s Dad so pissed off?” Sam asks.  
  
Dean runs a shaking hand through his hair, sighing.   
  
He doesn’t answer.  
  
~*~  
  
“What do you mean you’re not doing this anymore?”  
  
The first not-so-satisfied customer shows up on the Monday after John leaves. Her name is Grace. She’s blonde and stacked. She and Dean fucked twice before, once in her apartment in the shower, once in the back seat of her late-model sedan.  
  
And now she’s pouting.  
  
Goddammit, Dean  _hates_  it when girls pout. It’s like when Sam used to pull the puppy eyes whenever Dean flipped the channel when he was watching  _Spider-man_  cartoons or something. It’d make Dean so angry he wanted to spit, but he’d  _always_  give in.  
  
Of course, there’s a little more than channel choice at stake here.   
  
“I’m just… _not_ ,” Dean says lamely, stuffing his hands into his pockets and trying to ignore the way his dick hardens when she flicks her tongue over her lips.  
  
“Like, not having sex?” Grace asks. “Or, like, not taking  _money_  for it?”  
  
Dean’s head jerks up.  
  
Hell. Dean’s the master of the loophole, but somehow he hadn’t thought about  _that_.  
  
~*~  
  
It’s strange, but now that he’s been paid to have sex, it’s hard to do it for free. Not hard like  _difficult_ , but hard like…not as gratifying, somehow.  
  
Sally Henderson has long, light brown hair and bright blue eyes and the body of a gymnast because she is one. Cheerleader, too. Hot. She straddles him on the couch, fingers tripping over his stomach, slipping under the waistband of his jeans. She’s half-naked, grinding down on top of him, moaning and murmuring dirty words against his neck. By all accounts Dean should be fired up and burning, but instead he’s just.  _Not.  
  
This feels like a job._  
  
Dean bolts up, nearly shoving Sally off of him. She curses and swats at him, nicking his chest with one long, curved press-on fingernail.  
  
 _No fucking way. This is not happening to me, dammit…_  
  
“I got stuff to do,” Dean mumbles, and Sally looks at him like he’s gone plumb crazy. Which he  _has._  
  
“Damn, Dean,” Sally says. “What, you want money? I got—“  
  
He pushes her hard enough that she falls on the floor. “You couldn’t afford me,” he snarls. “Get out of my fucking house.”  
  
~*~  
  
When John returns a week later he’s killed a banshee and has some news.  
  
“We’re moving,” he says.  
  
“Aw,  _man_!” Sam’s furious. “C’mon, Dad, really? We can’t stay? There’s only six weeks left in the semester!”  
  
“Got things to do elsewhere, Sammy,” he says, tone gruff and filled with finality. “You get your stuff together. We leave tomorrow.”  
  
He glances at Dean, their eyes meeting for just one brief moment, but Dean sees it anyway because he’s been trained by the best – to read what’s there, to see the essence of a situation. The core.  
  
They can hunt anywhere. Dean knows for a fact that this area is heavy with paranormal legends and lore.   
  
This time they’re leaving because of Dean.  
  
~*~  
  
Dean keeps busy in Allendale, South Carolina. His father makes sure of it. He’s out hunting nearly every other night, and when he’s not hunting he’s doing homework, or helping Sam with his, or cleaning their gear or the house or the car. John never formally punished Dean for what happened – he doesn’t really do that – groundings, taking away privileges, whathaveyou – but his message is clear nonetheless.  
  
Dean’s so busy he almost forgets about his favorite hobby. Doesn’t have time to date, to hang out after school and flirt, even to daydream. What was in Crossville a massive flood has now become one hell of a drought.  
  
The strange thing is, Dean doesn’t mind all that much. It feels good having focus in his life, training hard and doing right by Sammy, making his father proud. His grades are all right, he’s the best damn shot in the whole county, and he’s even got a job working part-time for a local mechanic.   
  
“You keep learning how to fix cars, Dean, and I just might give you one,” John tells him with a sly wink one afternoon when he slouches into the house covered in grease and sweat and achey tired from hours spent hunched over car hoods.   
  
Dean falls asleep with visions of the Impala dancing in his head.  
  
~*~  
  
And then. Then he meets her.  
  
It’s sort of by accident. She shows up at the garage with a truly ugly Ford truck, beat up and dented and painted the foulest shade of green Dean’s ever seen. It’s transmission trouble, simple to fix – he figures that out quick enough – but it doesn’t matter, ‘cause Dean’s instantly in more trouble than her engine will ever be.  
  
She’s tall – got to be at least 5’10” – with strawberry blonde hair that tumbles down over her shoulders in soft waves that reach near the middle of her back. Curvy, too, with wide hips and full breasts that she keeps covered up in a bulky Allendale High sweatshirt. She wraps her arms around herself, swaying slightly, and looks away when he talks to her.  
  
“Miss,” he says, “it’ll cost you about six hundred to fix, I’m afraid.”  
  
Her face falls. She’s wearing worn brown leather cowboy boots, steel-toe. She smudges the tip of one into the dirt. “Oh,” she says. “Okay. Well. I don’t have six hundred dollars.”  
  
She looks up, her eyes meeting his, and he can see they’re hazel, changing color from grey to green with the shifting light. She catches her lower lip between her teeth.   
  
She smells like lilacs.  
  
 _I’ll fix it for free,_  Dean wants to say, but he doesn’t know how.  
  
~*~  
  
 _They say love is blind,  
but I see you so clearly,   
even in shadows;  
you, liquid life  
under my tongue,  
you, sweet silk  
under my fingers,  
you, silent love  
on my lips._  
  
~*~  
  
“You’re the car guy.”   
  
He glances up, and there she is – still tall, still beautiful – but this time she’s smiling down at him in the middle of his seventh period study hall.   
  
God, she’s  _gorgeous_.  
  
“I…yeah. Yeah, I guess,” he murmurs.  
  
“Didn’t realize you were still in high school,” she says. “Haven’t seen you around.”  
  
She’s got one of those slow, melty Southern accents that make Dean think of caramel and wildflowers and smooth, naked skin. He fiddles with his pen, rolling it between his fingers.   
  
“Just moved here, actually, about a month ago.”  
  
She tilts her head to one side.   
  
“You don’t say.”  
  
He arches an eyebrow, giving her a tentative half-smile.  
  
“I figured you must be new,” she says softly, lips curving at the corners. “Because you? I would’ve noticed.” She holds out her hand.   
  
“I’m Maddie.”  
  
“Dean,” he says, taking her hand automatically, feeling her palm hot against his.  
  
~*~  
  
It takes him three weeks to work himself up to ask her out.  
  
It’s pathetic. Even Sam notices.  
  
“Dude, you obviously like her,” Sam says. “What’s the big deal?”  
  
Dean’s been asking himself the same question.  
  
“God, stop being stupid,” Sam huffs. “You’re so lame sometimes.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes, mutters obscenities under his breath, then smacks his brother upside the head for good measure.  
  
The next morning he corners her in study hall.   
  
“Maddie,” he says, “you want to, like, go to dinner sometime?”  
  
She cocks her head to one side, looking at him appraisingly. “Like on a date?”  
  
“Like…whatever you want it to be,” Dean says, wilting like old lettuce.  
  
“Sure,” she says, “but only if it’s a date.”  
  
She smiles with teeth, eyes glinting a wicked green, and Dean has to re-learn the basics of respiration.  
  
~*~  
  
They go out to dinner – just a roadside bar-b-que place where everything’s sticky and slick and spicy and Dean gets lost watching Maddie lick her fingers – and then to a movie. Maddie’s caught up in the movie, hands clasped in her lap, fingers twisting around each other as the suspense builds. She gasps when a gunshot breaks the silence, breath hitching, and Dean thinks,  _yes.  
  
Make that sound again._  
  
About halfway through the movie she reaches over the arm of the chair, placing her hand on his thigh. His breath catches in his throat. Warmth from her hand seeps through the fabric of his jeans, and he’s fighting an insistent hard-on in seconds. He inhales through his nose, clenches his jaw, and places his hand on top of hers. She shifts her hand, turning it palm up so their fingers interlace. She doesn’t look at him, but he can see her smiling in the flickering light emanating from the screen.  
  
Later he takes her home (in the Impala, which Dad has informed him will become his on his eighteenth birthday “barring any more major fuck-ups” on Dean’s part). He pulls into her driveway, shifts the car into park, and looks up at Maddie through lowered lashes.  
  
“I had a real good time,” she murmurs, voice honey-soft.  
  
“Me too,” Dean says.  
  
She reaches out, trailing a finger over Dean’s neck, touch light and perfect. When her lips meet his it’s delicate and sweet and fiery and electric all at once. She licks his bottom lip, biting gently as they break apart. He notices her eyes are glazed and wide, pupils blown.  
  
“You’re too much of a gentleman, Dean,” she whispers. “We’re gonna have to do somethin’ about that.”  
  
He smiles, touching his tongue to his teeth, enjoying how her bright eyes go dark as licorice charcoal sin.  
  
 _Okay,_  Dean thinks.  _I can work with this._


End file.
